


if love were liquid (it would drown me)

by badtemperedchocolate



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen RPF, Chef RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 07:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21071057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badtemperedchocolate/pseuds/badtemperedchocolate
Summary: As chaotic as the test kitchen is during the day, it's actually pretty relaxing at night.





	if love were liquid (it would drown me)

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to professortennant for a.) answering several baking and general BA info questions and b.) ruining my life by introducing me to the BA Test Kitchen vids in the first place, and also thanks (or maybe curses) to 40millionyears, who encourages me far more than is wise.
> 
> as always, this is entirely fictional.

As chaotic as the test kitchen is during the day, it’s actually pretty relaxing at night.

Of course, it means everyone else has gone home, so the only people who ever get to appreciate it are the unlucky fools stuck babysitting a time-sensitive culinary project.

Tonight, it’s Brad, who’s eyeballing a dubious-looking concoction of herbs and spices and yeast, and Claire, who’s babysitting a particularly temperamental batch of puff pastry.

“I really didn’t think through this,” she sighs as she stares at her dough yet again. “Should have started earlier.”

“Hey, that’s how it rolls, Half-Sour.” Brad leans down to peer intently into his jar. “Look on the bright side. That stuff’s gonna be delicious.”

“It better be,” she grouses. “I could be home right now.”

“How much longer?”

She checks her phone, and her face falls. “At least an hour till I fold again.”

“Oof.” Brad grimaces in sympathy. “Sorry.”

“Aren’t you done?” He shrugs, though she’s not sure if that means _I’m done_ or _I’m not done_ or something else. Sometimes Brad, as a language, is vague. “You don’t have to stay.”

“And leave you here all by your lonesome? What kinda guy do you take me for, Saffitz?” He scoffs. “What if you need something from a high shelf?”

She shoots him a glare for that one, but he’s grinning. Her glares never really seem to get to him. She needs to work on that. And he’s _not_ adorable when he grins at her like this. He’s _not_.

She’s certainly ignoring that soft, warm flutter in her chest at the thought of him hanging around here _for her_. Nor is she indulging in any (more) of those illicit, highly unprofessional notions about the kitchen and offices and conference room being empty and ways they could test out the sturdiness of whatever tables are around.

He wipes his hands on his apron. “You eat dinner yet?”

“No,” she sighs. “I was just going to order something.”

“What? C’mon, Claire.” He waves his arms. “We’re surrounded by food.”

“I _really_ don’t feel like cooking anymore today.”

“Make you a deal,” he offers. “I’ll make food, you go see if there’s still that half a bottle of red Carla opened yesterday, yeah?”

Claire perks up minutely. “I can work with that.”

* * *

Within twenty minutes, they’re both working through bowls of stir-fry and perfectly cooked rice noodles. Claire sighs contentedly. “This is delicious.”

“I know, right?”

He’s leaning on the counter beside where she’s perched, her feet dangling high above the floor, bowl in her lap, mason jar of red wine within reach. There’s something to be said for working in a place like this, where _I’ll just throw something together_ can turn out so well. Brad may be the human equivalent of a tornado at times, but he really can work magic with the odd assortment of vegetables that always ends up in the walk-in.

And watching him work with a knife – well. She doesn’t _not_ like watching his hands.

“Nice view,” he comments, gesturing broadly to the nighttime lights of Manhattan glittering through the windows. “Kinda reminds me – you ever been to one of those dark restaurants?”

“Dining in the dark?” She shakes her head. “You?”

“Yeah, there’s this place in Vancouver, what’s it called?” He thinks for a second. “Dark Table? Yeah, Dark Table. Coolest thing. It’s totally dark. I swear to God, it makes the food taste even better.”

She cocks her head. “I have a hard time imagining you doing that.”

“I mean, I did knock a bunch of shit over,” he admits, and she laughs.

“That’s what I thought.”

Brad shrugs, clearly not bothered. It’s not like the entire kitchen doesn’t know he’s clumsy sometimes. “But you’re really never done it? That surprises me.”

Claire raises an eyebrow. “I’ve heard of it, but I don’t know. Sure, there’s a little enhancement, but I always thought it sounded kind of gimmicky.”

“Oh hell no! It’s totally real. When you can’t see, the flavors are so –” he waves one hand vaguely, trying to find the word he’s looking for – “You know! So good.”

“Really?”

“You sound pretty skeptical.”

“I am.”

She’s just finished her last bite of stir-fry, and he takes her bowl before she can hop down from the counter to put it away herself. “Oh. I – uh, thank you.”

“This is serious, Claire.”

“What is?”

“Your total lack of culture.”

“_Excuse_ me?”

Brad shrugs as he dumps their bowls in the sink and runs water in to rinse them. “How am _I _more up on this fancy culinary shit than you are?”

“I really don’t know.”

“But you’ve never even tried it. So how do you even know, Claire?” He throws his hands up. “Gotta try it!”

* * *

Claire’s not entire sure how it happens, but Brad’s rummaging through the several cabinets, muttering about whatever it is he saw in there earlier. He’s refused to tell her what’s for dessert, assuring her it’s _all part of_ _the experience_.

“Okay, I think I got it.” He turns around, rubbing his hands together. “Now. To get you blind.”

“You want me to shut my eyes?”

“No, that’s too –” He thinks for a minute, and then his face brightens. “Oh, I got a great idea. Hang on.” He rifles through a few drawers before letting out a triumphant _Aha!_ “Ain’t about to let you go cheatin’ on me, Claire.”

He pulls out one of Morocco’s blindfolds, and Claire blinks. “I – uh – okay.”

Claire holds perfectly still as he slips the blindfold gently over her eyes. Her heart does a quick flip in her chest as he leans in to make sure her hair’s not caught in the elastic band and she catches the strong, warm scent of his flannel shirt, but then he’s leaning back and she catches her breath and it was nothing, right? Just a fluke.

“That okay?”

She feels a soft breeze flutter over her skin. “Are you waving your hand in front of my face?”

The breeze stops. “How could you tell?”

“Wind.”

“Oh.” He chuckles. “Didn’t think of that. You promise you can’t see?”

“I promise.”

“Cross your heart?”

She shakes her head. _Why am I doing this?_ “Cross my heart.”

“Awesome! Okay. Lemme go grab the stuff. I’ll be right back.”

Claire curls her hands around the edge of the counter, breathing in slowly through her nose. Without her vision, her remaining senses are alight and aware. She can hear every footstep as he walks across the kitchen, the soft rustle of him opening some kind of paper bag, the clink of the spoon he pulls out of the cutlery drawer, the creak of cabinet doors opening.

“So what’s for dessert?” she calls.

“Couple things to try.”

“Like what?”

“Not telling.”

“_Braaaaad_.”

She’s whining, she knows, but she can hear him chuckling as his footsteps come back towards her. “Don’t ‘Brad’ me, Half-Sour. You gotta go in with an open mind. It’s all about the _experience_.”

“You’re full of shit.”

He laughs at that, loud and open. “You may be right. But we’re still doing this.”

She hears him set – a bowl, maybe? and a spoon? – and some kind of paper bag on the counter beside her. Claire has to admit – he might be right. _Might_. Her hearing feels keener than ever.

She’s not going to admit it out loud, though. It’s the principle of the thing.

There’s a rustling sound, and a soft _snap_.

“Okay. Open.”

“What?”

“Your mouth. Open your mouth.”

“I – oh.”

She’d been expecting him to hand her things, but this is…different.

It’s on the tip of her tongue to argue, to tell him this is ridiculous and she doesn’t want to, but then it hits her – if there’s one person she trusts, it’s Brad. They share Starbursts.

So despite her initial hesitation, Claire opens her mouth. It feels oddly vulnerable, sitting here waiting for him, but then she feels something brush her mouth.

“Here you go. Sample number one.”

He pops a piece of chocolate into her mouth, and Claire pushes away everything else, focuses on that.

It’s chocolate. Smooth, silky. It melts soft and easy on her tongue, and when the flavor hits, it’s intoxicating. Milk chocolate, but it’s high in cacao, and it has a buttery quality, almost – caramel?

She takes a moment to savor the richness, syrupy and warm. Maybe – _maybe_ – Brad was right and there’s something to this. The flavor feels like it’s coating her tongue, invading her remaining senses, and she tastes chocolate all the time, but this – this is different.

“Well?” Brad finally prompts.

She swallows thickly. “Good.”

“Right?” He sounds delighted. “Any guesses?”

It’s too high-quality to be anything else. “Is it Scharffen Berger?”

“Damn right!” He claps his hands. “Nice one, Claire.”

She swallows again. The aftertaste is perfect; sweet without being saccharine, just enough to linger. “It’s really good.”

“Isn’t it great? It’s like, I don’t know, it has time to warm up or some shit. But I swear there’s a difference. You taste a difference, right?”

Claire nods. So much for the principle of the thing. “It’s like it unfolds more slowly.”

“Yeah, yeah!” He laughs. “You want the rest of it? Just a small piece.”

“Sure.”

“Here.”

Her lips part readily, and she feels him slip the chocolate into her mouth. It’s warm from his hand, and she can’t resist dragging her tongue over his fingertips to catch the bit of melted chocolate. She hears him take in a sharp breath.

Brad hands her a pint jar of water to cleanse her palate, and she sips at it, listening as he putters around with whatever else he’s pulled out.

“So what’s next?”

“Syrup. Or something. Chris was messing around with this earlier,” he explains. “Just trying some different shit, looking for the perfect cheesecake topping, and he thought he nailed it with this blend.”

If Chris is satisfied, Claire’s pretty sure this is probably literally perfect. “Okay.”

She opens her mouth, and a second later, she feels the cool metal of a spoon against her lips.

Liquid chocolate. Rich. Light. Sweet with just the faintest hint of salt to bring it out. It’s _so_ perfectly balanced, sweet with bitter, and for a second she can’t quite process it.

“Oh, hang on.” Brad’s voice is rough. “Lost a bit there.”

Claire clutches the edge of the counter as he brushes the corner of her mouth with his thumb, catching a few stray droplets.

She feels his thumb touch her lips, light as a feather, and she opens her mouth, sucking the chocolate off, swirling her tongue over the pad of his thumb. She hears him take in a sharp breath, but he doesn’t pull away; his thumb lingers on her mouth just a moment longer than it really needs to.

“’S good, yeah?” His voice is dark, huskier than usual, a low growl that sends heat flooding her body. And Claire knows, with absolute certainty, that he’s not just talking about the chocolate.

“Yeah. It’s good.” She rolls the flavor over her tongue again. It’s an incredible burst of rich sweetness. “Can I have more?”

“Sure.”

She opens her mouth, but rather than the cool metal of the spoon, he presses two fingers to her lips.

_Oh_.

Sucking the chocolate off his fingers feels decadent. Illicit. She feels deliciously hot, like someone’s taken the low hum of arousal and turned the heat up until it’s about to boil over. His breath is hot on her skin. Is she imagining it, or is his heart pounding like hers is?

She sucks the chocolate away, running her tongue over the pads of his fingers slowly. She’s had more than a few unprofessional thoughts about these fingers, and right now there’s no possible way to ignore the low, dull ache building between her legs, no way to stop thinking about him unzipping her jeans and slipping his hand inside.

He pulls his hand away, but she can feel him still so close, heat radiating from his body.

“Brad?”

“Yeah?”

She doesn’t know what she’s trying to say.

Claire takes a shaky breath. She feels flushed, hot all over, anticipation bubbling and fizzing under her skin like sparks. And maybe this started out innocent (or at least harmless) but she’s more or less on the brink of full-blown arousal right now and she can’t see his face but she’s pretty sure Brad’s right there with her.

She reaches out, traces her hands over his scratchy beard, the strong line of his jaw, brushing her thumb over the line of his throat. She can feel him swallow hard. “_Claire –_”

She curls her fingers around the nape of his neck and then he’s leaning in to meet her as she pulls him into a kiss.

The first touch of his lips is pure electricity.

There’s a moment of shock. Everything’s suspended, like the split second between taste and real comprehension, and then Claire shivers and wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him long and deep.

She catches his bottom lip between her teeth and he groans, his hands tightening on her hips. The first brush of her tongue against his lips seems to set something loose in him, and before she can do more than gasp, he presses forward, settling between her legs.

The scratch of his beard, the roughness of his hands, the heat of his mouth on hers – it’s total sensory overload, setting all her nerve endings on fire. She can’t see him but his _presence_ is intoxicating, the heat of his body, the broad stretch of his chest, his hands so big against her, and she feels like she’s drowning against him.

He breaks away from her mouth to trail kisses down her throat and Claire gasps, gripping handfuls of his shirt, sliding one hand into the soft riotous mess of his curly hair. She wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him in closer, and his reaction is immediate. His hips roll against hers, and she lets out a low, helpless whimper at the sudden heat and weight of him pressing against her, _so close_ to where she’s already wet and aching.

“Claire –” his voice is low and breathless as he pants against her throat – “_God_, Claire –”

Claire final reaches for her blindfold, pulling it off and dropping it carelessly, blinking at the sudden shock of light.

Brad’s still so close, his eyes locked on hers. He’s breathing hard, his hair a mess from her hands, and she can see the question on his face. He brushes a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with surprising gentleness, and the decision is clear.

She presses her hands against his chest, pushing him back far enough that she can slide off the counter. Brad blinks in confusion. “Claire?”

“Come on.”

She grabs his hand, pulling him behind her across the kitchen, past the stations, towards the closest office, dark and silent.

Drags him inside, pushes him down onto the nearest chair, and shuts the door behind them.

* * *

When he follows her out of the office later, Brad’s grinning like an idiot as he tries to re-button his shirt properly.

Claire tries to smooth her tousled hair. Her cheeks are flushed, and she can already feel the scratch of beard burn that’s going to be embarrassingly obvious by tomorrow. Thank God the kitchen’s empty right now, because she’s pretty sure that literally anyone could guess exactly what they just did to each other.

But first: she has dough to take care of.

After one more round of rolling and folding, she sets her pastry on a shelf in the walk-in. When she comes out, Brad’s leaning on the counter, hands in his pockets, watching her with a little grin. “Done?”

“For tonight.” She tosses her apron on the laundry pile and looks up at him. “You, uh – you want to come over?”

“Yeah.” He grins at her, lopsided and easy, because when it comes right down to it, Brad’s approach to life and everything in it is simple. “I’d like that.”

Claire can’t help but smile back, her whole body alight with anticipation, and she tugs him down to steal another kiss.

“You know, you were right?” she murmurs against his lips.

“About what?”

“Everything tastes better in the dark.”


End file.
